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inawickedlittletown · 5 years ago

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Walking The Wire (162/165)

Summary: Tony Stark always knew about Peter Parker. He didn’t know that Peter was going to get superpowers and become Spider-Man, but he always knew about Peter because Peter was his son.

This will span from pre-Iron Man up through the rest of the MCU (eventually including Infinity War) and will be for the most part canon compliant except where I’ve taken some liberties and interpreted canon a certain way.

Pairings: Pepper/Tony, Tony/Steve (endgame), Tony/Mary (past)

A/N: If you want me to tag you when I post new chapters let me know. This fic is also on AO3

I used Collider’s MCU timeline to stay canon and the title of this fic is an Imagine Dragons song that is just so fitting for Peter and Tony

@findmeinthestarss

Masterpost

Chapter One Hundred Sixty One

Stepping into the tower felt like finally having a moment to breathe. Everything was done. It was back to normal life -- whatever normal life really meant -- and Tony was ready for it. He hadn’t discussed it with Steve yet, but he wanted to announce his official retirement when they did the video explaining The Decimation. There was actually quite a bit that he and Steve had to talk about, but Tony was too tired for that. All he wanted was to just be in his home without anything hanging over their heads.

K-9 greeted them when they arrived, waging his robotic tail and barking excitedly and Tony couldn’t wait until Peter got home to see him because although K-9 was a robot, he was a learning AI and he recognized people -- he knew Peter was his person.

“Have you been a good boy?” Steve asked, bending down. “I bet you have.” He pet the dog for a while longer while Tony moved past them. The lights turned on all over the penthouse, but Tony was too tired to go further than the living room.

“Hey, hon, I think we should order some food and just put something on. Don’t think I could sleep just yet but I’m too tired for anything else.”

Steve was on his feet and K-9 followed him towards Tony. “Sounds like a plan.”

Tony took care of having Jarvis order them some food and then he reached out for Steve who moved to sit next to him. Tony pressed himself into his side and Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He felt Steve brush a kiss to his temple and Tony just relished in it because for some time, he had expected that this would never happen again -- that he would come home to plan a funeral instead of a wedding. Tony knew he had to move past those feelings -- the devastation that he’d felt. He needed to live in the moment and not the what-ifs. They had a future ahead of them.

“You’re thinking a lot,” Steve said.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” Tony said. “I didn’t think I would be happy when I got back here.”

“But you are,” Steve said.

Tony nodded. “You’re here.”

Tony leaned up to meet Steve’s lips in a slow soft kiss that was almost languid and lazy and absolutely perfect.

---

“Oh, who’s a good boy? Did you miss me K-9?” Peter said and the dog just barked excitedly and Peter chased after him. The dog barked and jumped and Pete couldn’t help but laugh. He got down on the floor to play with him and he hated and loved how much the robot dog had clearly missed him.

He found his dad and Steve on the couch with some sort of HGTV show on in the background. Containers of food were on the coffee table.

“Hey, kid, we left you food in the kitchen if you’re hungry. Want to join us? We can put on something else.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter, but why are you even watching this in the first place?”

“Thinking of building a house,” Tony said with a grin. “You know, I designed and built my house back in Malibu. No one thought I could do it on the side of that cliff, but I wanted to prove everyone wrong and get as far away from my father’s memory as possible.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Even though he’d eaten back with May, his metabolism meant that he probably did need more food. He walked to the kitchen and warmed up a plate.

“How was May?” Steve asked.

“Okay. I thought she’d be a lot worse. She just seemed happy to see me.”

He joined them on the couch, sitting next to his dad while he ate. On the tv they were remodelling a bedroom and it was kind of boring but interesting all at once and Peter didn’t mind it in the background, because he got to listen to his dad and Steve talking about what the two of them required for an actual house and Peter was beginning to realize that it would be a reality.

“Where is this house going to be?” he asked.

“Upstate New York. I bought some land -- I think after everything it will be nice to be away from the city and away from the Avengers Compound.”

“That sounds nice,” Peter said.

“But first I’m serious about the wedding. I want it to happen soon,” his dad said.

Peter nodded. He was with his dad on that -- they had waited more than enough time. They had all been through a lot.

“So you’ve said,” Steve said.

“I’m talking about we should get married before something else happens to postpone it,” Tony said. “I’m going to deal with all the details tomorrow but I’m hoping by this time next week…”

Steve sort of gaped at him for a moment. Peter laughed. “Yes, yes. Wedding. I’m so excited.”

Tony grinned as he got up from the cough and he leaned down to kiss Steve’s head as he passed him. “We saved the universe what better way to celebrate? I want you to be my husband before we do anything else -- even returning those stones.”

Steve nodded and his eyes were sort of twinkling.

“Hey, your honeymoon could we anywhere in the past,” Peter said.

Tony laughed. “That’s an idea.”

---

It was late by the time that Steve had made them all hot chocolate as a midnight treat before heading to bed. Peter hugged him tightly and then Tony before he headed off to his room and Steve was happy. He was so happy that they were all back home and together. He and Tony were getting married. Peter was with them. Back at the compound was everyone else and more.

“I’m going to call Pepper tomorrow and tell her to get the ball moving on the wedding,” Tony said through a yawn. “But there’s the other thing. Steve, are you still -- do you want to be...you said you were in before and I just want to be sure because I want to and it can take years so it’s not like we’re jumping into something or anything but I--”

Steve grabbed Tony’s hands and Tony stopped and took in a breath.

“What is it?” Steve asked.

Tony turned without a word and Steve followed him to the workshop. He went through a few things before he found what he was looking for and he handed a stack of papers at Steve. Steve had seen them before. Steve took them, but didn’t look them over immediately, instead focusing on Tony for a moment.

“What is this?”

“It’s the stuff from the adoption agency,” Tony said. He looked nervous but also excited. “Do you still want to adopt? I still do and I figured we can get that ball rolling too so--”

Steve had sort of forgotten about it but of course Tony hadn’t. He wanted it, Steve realized. He actually did want this and badly for it to be one of the things he wanted to deal with at once and Steve found that he did want it too. He wanted everything with Tony and Steve could remember it so clearly the way that Tony had been holding Peter as a baby so absolutely smitten, just like Steve had felt when he himself had been holding Peter and it was of course because it was Peter but Tony would look that way when it came to another child -- any child that was theirs. His and Tony’s. Steve felt warm and nervous and excited and he could only nod at Tony.

“Yeah. I’m in, Tony. Of course I’m in.”

Tony nodded and Steve had to move forward. He dropped the papers on a table and took Tony by the waist and kissed him. Tony pushed back into the kiss changing it from soft and taking control and Steve realized that he’d missed this -- the intimacy and Tony. Tony being close, how his hands felt as they rushed to unbutton his shirt and Tony’s goatee scratching his skin and all the sounds that Tony made. How Tony pressed their bodies so close together that they were touching everywhere and that he could hear Tony’s heartbeat like it was his own.

Pepper was mad at Tony. She was mad entirely because he seemed to expect her to get all kinds of things done for him even though she wasn’t his assistant, she had a company to run, and over the last twenty four hours the whole world -- hell, the whole universe -- had undergone some insane changes.

At the moment, Tony was actually getting his make up done before he, Steve, and Carol -- Pepper had only just met her and she loved her already -- filmed a video explaining everything to the world. The whole thing was kind of silly in her opinion, but Fury thought it was necessary.

“The most important thing right now is my wedding, Pep,” Tony said. “Just make a few calls. Get your assistant on it since I don’t actually have one at the moment. I know we had things set up before, we just need to move it up.”

Pepper sighed. “Tony, can you ever do anything normally?”

The make-up person was fixing some of the foundation that Tony had already managed to get off his face.

“I could ask for you to have a giant stuffed bunny at the wedding if you prefer,” Tony said and he had a huge playful grin on and Pepper hated him even more.

“Tony Stark, giant stuffed bunnies are things that no one ever really needs or wants. I’ll call the wedding planner and let you know what works best. But what about guests and all of that -- this is so last minute and--”

“I’ll have Friday take care of that part -- just give me the date and time. I love you, Pep, thank you. And the sooner the better, please.”

“Between you and Fury, I don’t know who’s worse. These are the days when I miss Phil as the liaison.”

“Where is Agent?” Tony asked.

“Busy,” Steve threw in from where he was seated.

Carol was a chair over getting her hair done. Pepper was just hoping that the whole video shoot would go quick. The only thing that was making it better was having Peter there. He was busy on a video call with his friend Ned, but when he first arrived, Pepper had been able to talk to him and check him over. He was fine -- nothing had happened to him. He was just as he’d been the last time he saw him and yet she couldn’t help but glance at him from time to time to cement in her mind that he really was back. She supposed that the whole world was having a similar problem.

---

“Hello,” Steve said and he sounded awkward and stiff. “Captain America here with--”

“Nope,” Tony said, shaking his head. “You sound so weird. Just be yourself will you? This is not those PSAs you shot a while back.”

When Steve looked a little confused, Tony met Peter’s eyes and Peter tried to stifle a laugh.

“Steve, just relax. Be yourself. How about I start?”

Steve gave him a nod. They were seated behind a table and it was him, Steve, and Carol. Both Steve and Carol were suited up. Tony was in a more comfortable and different kind of suit with the green tie that Pepper claimed made his eyes pop.

“Hello. A lot has happened in the last few months--”

Tony ended up doing most of the talking. Steve jumped in a few times, but Carol was mostly tight lipped. She added a few things here or there, but she let Tony explain things. He must have been doing well because no one tried to stop him.

“...I know that this is hard on everyone,” Tony said towards the end. “It was hard on me. My son was one of The Decimated and I grieved his loss until he was returned to me. I understand the pain that many have gone through but I also know that everyone that was taken was kept well and out of harm. I know that this time has been hard on everyone and that it has changed many of us, but that is not a bad thing. We must embrace life and live it to the fullest. This is why, I have decided to officially retire from The Avengers and take a step back from being Iron Man. There will always be threats and bad guys, just as there will always be heroes. Thank you everyone.”

The first voice he heard was Peter’s. “Dad,” he said. “You just--”

“Yeah,” Tony said.

He looked towards Steve, and Steve just offered him a smile.

“You didn’t have to announce it like that,” Steve said.

Tony shrugged. “I wanted it to be official and that way they’ll have more to focus on than The Decimation and our newest hero.”

Carol laughed. “Who are you calling new, I’ve been doing this longer than you.”

“Just not here, I know. What’s Fury’s plan about that, then?”

Carol shrugged. “He doesn’t want me to go off like I did before, but I’ll have to check on other planets soon. Although there’s The Guardians now too. I can rely on them.”

“Maybe,” Steve said, “he wants in on the space action too.”

Someone took all their mics off and Tony was glad to get up. The whole thing had gone well, but Tony had more important things to worry about: like his wedding.

“Maybe,” Carol said.

“All I’m saying,” Tony said, “is that with me taking a step back and Clint going back to his farm and Scott back in San Francisco and the giant cat being a king of his own country, there’s not really a cohesive team left. They’re going to need you, Captain.”

“Need me,” Steve said. “But I--”

Tony shook his head. “The other Captain.”

Carol shook her head but looked at him fondly. “I like you, Stark,” she said.

Chapter One Hundred Sixty Three

#peter and tony #peter and tony fic #mcuwriting #mcu fic #iron dad #iron dad and spider son #stony #stony fic #marvel

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helmcontrcl · 6 years ago

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@getinthefunvee:

Was there really a point to the Malibu mansion?

Really, honestly, Tony had questioned its very existence in the weeks ( months, years ) prior to the curvy modernist edifice swan-diving into the water like the icing on some sort of really outre party. Sure, it made a great bachelor pad, but the on-again, off-again thing with Pepper meant that, increasingly, he’d started thinking of it as her home – despite the superbasement filled with tech, despite all his cars, despite any sane, logical human adult acknowledging it’d never been anything but Tony Stark’s embodied masculinity.

Somewhere past the hair gel and OTT timepieces, Tony was thoroughly SENTIMENTAL.

And yes, alright, he spent zero time here now that partying was sort of a no-go and his trials & tribulations had him vibrating between the Tower ( what the fuck was he supposed to call it, now? reclaim it as Stark Tower? Artscaper Formerly Known As Avengers? Fewer Fucking Avengers Tower? I Hate Myself?? ) and the upstate compound but someone had taken something that he thought of as HERS and blasted it into the ocean.

Yeah, he was going to rebuild it.

The biggest problem – after the rubble was cleared – was rebuilding the cliff face. Hardscaping had never been Tony’s forte, and the watershed decided to be in less convenient places than previously anticipated. He also uncovered a very cool but very unstable series of wannabe sinkholes, no doubt caused by the explosion destabilizing pre-existing cave structures.

So that was fun.

Then there was the actual design. Modernist beachy was so over, and besides, with climate change a very real deal, Tony wanted to future-proof everything to the nth.

He ended up with something half-way between a pueblo on acid and an overgrown 本棟造. With, like, WAY more recessed lighting.

The eroded cliff was transformed into a series of terraced pools, one slipping into the next via a series of small waterfalls, and created a larger waterfall into the ocean below. Tony opted to go heavy on the foliage; since everything was off-grid and eco-conscious, including reclaimed structural components, he sourced native species and created a series of swirling, pollen-rich outdoor rooms, connected by smooth pebble paths perfect for impromptu yoga sessions or just meandering barefoot.

It was into this that the spacecraft faceplanted, leaving a trail of smoldering ruin and scattering a few panicked songbirds.

On the terrace, still awake from the night before, in his fuzzy bunny slippers, boxers, and breezy yukata, Tony nearly dropped his espresso.

“ Uh, FRIDAY? Can you run. Stuff. ”

‘ Analyzing now. ’

“ And patch through to the Pentagon. They’ll want to know that I had a mishap with a personal-grade experimental craft on private property and within patrolled airspace. I want to make sure I get to kick the tires before anyone gets trigger-happy. Any survivors? And, you know, is this more refugees from Asgard or Independence Day? ”

You’ll never amount to anything—

Liar Liar

Liar

Pilot error… Pilot error….

I served with your father– Stop wasting your time with toys!

We’re losing altitude! Hold on I’m going to try to– Tom!

–Nice work, Lieutenant

Tom?

He’s my friend! …Are you saying his ship exists out of time?

You know what I remember… remember…

The groan reaches his ears first, swallowed by a persistent ringing that takes several seconds of stuttered breathing to realise is inside his head. A slow movement and a low wounded exhale have bright blue eyes opening with a clumsy flutter, grunting as he lifts his head against the pull of gravity.

He blinks, the low lighting that has eyes straining is his cue that it’s early morning, maybe evening. Though he’s having a hard time putting back together what happened, a haze of memory sliding in and out of focus like a kaleidoscope of pieces. The more he turns them over in his mind, the more scattered and out of reach they become. It hurts, chasing after recollection as it hurtles further and further from grasp–

Mr Paris, take us out. Maximum warp.

The more he follows, the more confused he becomes, so he redirects his efforts, works on levering himself up into a sitting position and giving himself a once-over. Nothing serious, a few superficial wounds and bruises but nothing warranting major treatment. Near as he can tell, the shuttle had absorbed most of the impact. And it’s a sign that he has, at least, some training in medical practice, though for what, he’s still figuring that out.

Voyager. The name flashes in and out of memory. A red-haired woman, elegant, regal, commanding. Standing above him, offering him a new start, offering freedom.

He said yes.

He said no.

Pain spikes through his mind as he struggles to marry up conflicting recollection, contradictory memories running parallel through the streams of disarray as though he were remembering two pasts, two histories. “What the–“ sparks explode near his shoulder, leftover electrical current frying state-of-the-art circuitry. All at once the shuttle feels alien, despite the faint hint of familiarity. He needs to get out of there. Grunting, he staggers upright, ducks and haphazardly weaves his way to the back of the shuttle where the door had been rammed partially open. He took the time to dig out the med-kit that was stored behind the bulkhead, muscle-memory guiding him to it; though the Starfleet insignia gives him pause.

I never re-joined Starfleet?

Wearied feet carry him out of the shuttle, a zig-zagged path marking the steps of an injured man. He’s barely functioning, staggering in the half-light ( his training helpfully supplying that he’s presenting the early stages of Shock and damned if that wasn’t going to further make his day ). He belatedly registers that he isn’t armed as he stumbles up the path towards a house ( a majestic house, but Tom was too exhausted to pay it mind ) and he curses under his breath, mutters something about ‘guess I’ll charm my way through this one.’

On any other day he’d be marveling at the decor, the impeccable taste of the ( now-ruined ) landscaping. But this wasn’t any other day, and it was bad enough that he felt the insides of his mind being torn in two, let alone the fact he was god knows where on.. is this Earth? Why did that seem so strange?

“Hello? Is there anyone there? My name is….” Lieutenant Paris. Paris. Marquis. Traitor.

“Tom Paris.” At least that part of his memory seemed to be in tact. Though he wasn’t sure he was overly fond of the adjectives that name inspired in his mind.

“….of the Federation Starship Voyager.”

–That wasn’t right.

#getinthefunvee #thread; crash landing #<3 #this is where we're up to :)

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lovelyirony · 7 years ago

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whAT DO YOU MEAN

@ifdragonscouldtalk a recording of anyone screaming is currently a Big Mood for me but also relatable

Clint and Tony were friends of Natasha. They just never met. Natasha had talked about the other in the presence of them, but they just...didn’t think about it.

Until Natasha’s birthday party. She makes a huge deal of not telling anybody when her birthday is, so Clint decided to host it Christmas Eve. Because if there’s anything Natasha hates more than people knowing her name means Christmas Day, it’s celebrating her birthday close to there.

“Oh my god, that’s genius,” Tony whispers as she complains about what Clint did.

“Christmas is a capitalistic holiday that’s lost all meaning because people no longer value things like love and respect,” Natasha grumbles. Tony rolls his eyes.

“Alright edgelord, settle down there. Buy yourself something nice for Christmas, my card. Last time I bought something for Pepper, Amazon got the sizing wrong. It was too big.”

“Are you talking about the bunny?”

“Shut up shut up shut up, we don’t talk about the Malibu Incident.”

Clint and Tony get to meet at the party. It’s overdecorated, with cheesy Santas that Clint got from an old dumpster hung up by the necks, so it looks like someone just kind of left them there. Natasha’s favorite decoration is that. Tony got tinsel, because that doesn’t leave your house for at least a year, and put it everywhere.

The two didn’t think that they would really bond over the party. But Clint makes a reference to a dead meme, Tony laughs at it, and they found out they both spiked the punch last party that they held for Thor so that’s what got Steve drunk.

And so, the two bonded.

“Favorite movie?” Tony grills.

“Ratatouille. Favorite fish?”

“Fish is gross, I’m not being your friend if you voluntarily eat fish.”

“Correct.”

“Favorite color?”

“All of them.” Tony nods. “If you had to pick someone to help you survive on an island, who would you choose?”

“You. You said you’re in archery, so you could shoot a flaming arrow and tell me funny stories.” Clint puts his hands on his heart.

“I’m?????? So touched??? Oh my god, I made a new friend!” Clint hugs Tony, who hugs back. “How do you feel about dogs?”

“OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A DOG?????” Natasha freezes as she’s opening her present from Pepper.

“Who let them meet?” Natasha hisses. “They’re the Disasters!”

“Ignore the edgelord, I’m flawless,” Tony says, and then immediately falls onto the couch. “I meant to do that.”

“One more question,” Clint says, flopping onto the couch. “What’s your favorite American pastime?”

“Making fun of Steve.”

“You passed. You also made it to Best Friend Level 2.”

And so begins the Disaster Friends.

#this was really fun to write #they're both disasters #but fun disasters #tony stark #clint barton #natasha romanoff #she's an edgelord

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thepunisher · 7 years ago

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A Bottle Marked ‘Poison’

Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes | E | 9428 words | 2/? |

ao3 link

Summary: The headstones are clean and well preserved and surrounded by fresh, colorful flowers when he reaches them. Not lilies, never lilies. But roses and sunflowers and violets. Someone has been taking care of them for years. (Not him. He can’t even take care of himself.) There’s names and dates and pictures. There’s quotes. Beloved mother. He has a split lip, his eye is a nasty shade of purple and he’s still nursing three bruised ribs. Somehow this hurts more. OR On the anniversary of their deaths, Tony visits his parents’ graves. He has an unexpected encounter. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Longing

I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.

There is an empty place within me where my heart was once.

George RR Martin, A Clash of Kings

He debates a long time on whether or not he should go. He doesn't want to, of course. Just the thought has him jittery, anxiety buzzing under his skin like electricity, leg bouncing up and down non-stop. And yet it's not like he really has a choice.

When the walls of the workshop start closing in on him, sight going fuzzy around the edges, the decision is made for him. He throws the screwdriver he was fidgeting with on the work table, metal hitting the surface with a clang he doesn't even register because he's already out of the door.

The Mansion is austere and sterile, ghosts haunting every square metre of it.

Tony hates it. He hates the smell of it, the silence, the absolute lack of indication that someone is actually living here. He hates every damn stupid knick knack littering every available surface so much sometimes it's hard not to shove them all on the floor and watch them break in a thousand little pieces.

He hates that two decades later he still can't find the courage to go past the doors of the master bedroom. Can only look at his mother's perfume sitting on her vanity from afar, bottle left opened, pearls scattered near her brush.

He couldn't really move in his old room, the one of his childhood, of his teenage years. The one with stupid posters of his stupid heroes on the walls and a closet stuffed full of useless trophies that never amounted to anything. Too many memories and too many disappointments there. He took for himself one of the guest rooms. He thinks it's somewhat fitting, considering he's a guest in his own home.

It's a house but it feels more like a golden prison and he's been sentenced for life.

(He committed too many crimes he needs to atone for, he deserves it.)

He could take up and leave of course, like he left the tower, like he left the ruins of Malibu, like he left the compound. Tony Stark is good at leaving broken things behind him.

But to go where? He started over many times before and always ended up empty handed anyway. Resilient, yes, but there's nowhere in the world where his demons wouldn't follow, so the Mansion is as good a place as any.

He's doing fine, really.

(His life is a long line of fine.)

Christmas, though. Christmas he doesn't know how to deal with, perhaps he never has, never learned how to.

It's never been his favorite holiday, not even when his parents were still alive. Other children would spend the night waiting for Santa, he would be waiting for Howard and Maria to come home from whatever gala or party or get away they'd gone to, Jarvis, and Ana before she passed, his only company.

His mother would always look apologetic whenever they got back. She would caress his hair and kiss his cheek and tuck him into bed, her voice soft while singing an italian lullaby.

Jarvis would try his best to make the house as festive as possible, and Christmas’ eves were always spent making cookies and reminiscing stories of aunt Peggy’s adventures, and Christmas mornings were always spent unwrapping a pile of presents that would never make up for the indifference.

The first few days of January he would always be shipped back to boarding school, his belly fuller and his gaze emptier, head filled with words of inadequacy and sweet nothings.

He found Jarvis’ Christmas decorations in a closet, stored with other junk, while setting up Friday’s eyes and ears. He thought for a long time whether or not to make an effort and put some around the house, stared for even longer at a Christmas ball he had made with mechanical parts when he was six. Howard had been pissed at the waste, but Jarvis had looked so proud he's displayed it right at the front of the tree, nevermind that it clashed with the rest of the golden and red ornaments.

He didn't throw everything away, but it was a close call.

(Perhaps he is nostalgic after all.)

Still, there was no reason to put them around. No reason for oversized bunnies, either. And so the house is quiet, no trees, no lights, no presents. No people to celebrate with.

He could go on another 72 hours tinkering binge, his go-to way of spending this time of the year, so many things to do after all, but Rhodey would probably come over just to kick his ass, and he can't have Rhodey worry over him. He deserves a break.

The invitation came over a week ago, by phone, mail and text. Rhodey really wants him to go and he won't accept a no for an answer. Tony can take a hint.

He's gotten into his head that he'll smooth down all the wrinkles on his own. He's putting a lot of effort into making this whole team thing work, and that's really the only reason why Tony is gonna show up at all.

He should take the car, rather than fly in, but really, as an escape vehicle, his suit is much faster than his Audi.

And Tony is pretty sure that he'll want to escape sooner rather than later.

The flight over goes by in a blur, one thought chasing after the other too fast for his mind to linger. He has no recollection of it whatsoever.

The sky is white and the atmosphere feels charged when he lands on the roof of the compound. It hasn't started snowing yet, but it's gonna happen any minute now. Everyone has been predicting a white Christmas.

The suit disassembles and reassembles behind him in a matter of seconds and a crisp cold engulfs him so suddenly he staggers. He should have taken a coat with him, but he wasn't exactly thinking properly, leaving in a hurry before he could change his mind. Again.

The insulation system he installed after he almost froze to death works so well he never even noticed the temperature while in the air, and yet now that he is, it's easy for his mind to travel thousands of miles. For a moment he loses focus of the structure, of the gardens, of the trees around him, of the Quinjet parked in the front courtyard, and the only thing he can hear is the sound of crunching metal, no white pavement, but frozen ground under his feet. His hand moves to his chest before he can even process it, and he finds himself exhaling slowly only when he feels the arc reactor humming under his fingers. Whole.

Rationality is the first thing to go out of the window when you panic, and they say that you should make an effort to bring it back, as it's your best tool to fight anxiety, that you should explain to your brain that there's no reason to be scared.

(Bullshit.)

It's hard to reason when reason also screams that this is a terrible idea, and he should not have come.

It's not too late to tuck in tail and leave, but he doesn't. He pats down his hair instead, thankful it's so short so it's probably not too messy, and hopes that there's no engine grease on his rumpled clothes.

The Iron Man follows him down inside the compound like a quiet shadow, before parking itself in a hidden niche.

There are a few people around the building, operatives who work for the Avengers and keep things in check, run lesser risk operations, keep the world spinning.

Tony waves at them whenever he crosses them in the hallways, Christmas trees and lights and decorations making the place look more alive than he's seen it in a very long time.

It's been almost a month since he last made an appearance. He's been upstate less and less since it got crowded again, any excuse good enough to stay as far away as he could.

(Sorry, super important SI meeting, Pepper would kill me if I missed it; oops, launch of a new product; you see, I have this thing, and it's much more convenient if I just stay over at the Mansion.)

It never felt like home. Not really. Not after they defeated Ultron, and he would stroll in sometimes, bringing tech as presents and basking in a camaraderie that always had him feeling like a guest in his own property. Definitely not after all that was left of the Avengers were him and Rhodey and Vision, and the silence would echo across the hallways.

(Home is where the heart is, and he doesn't have one.)

“I'm so glad you came, Tones,” says Rhodey the moment he enters the common dining area, and enveloping him in a hug.

Tony allows himself to soak in the moment and hugs him back so tightly his bruised ribs protest. He doesn't care.

Too soon he lets go, his eyes darting fast across the room, taking in the scene in a matter of seconds.

It seems like a century ago that they were all here discussing the Accords, the quiet before the storm, the beginning of the end. The place doesn't even look the same anymore. He tore it down and built it over after Wanda and Vision’s little accident, but every inch of it is burned into his retina like a scar and it's not gray marble he stands on, shiny and whole, but a gaping hole that reaches the foundations; it's not scattered people chatting and a table overfilled with food around him, but too many empty chairs.

(None of them look the same. They're all strangers under friendly disguises.)

He told everyone that the new look and the new furniture were necessary for structural reasons, but the truth is that it was too painful to walk past those rooms everyday and be constantly reminded of what had been and what no longer was.

(Some gaping holes you can't fill.)

“Oh, I wouldn't have missed it for the world, Rhode-Bear,” Tony replies nonchalant and he feels like snickering when Rhodey rolls his eyes in the exasperated way that is only reserved for him.

He looks good. Steadier than he was even the last time he saw him. He's standing on his own, one arm propped casually on a piece of furniture as an afterthought, as if he doesn't really need it.

Tony studies him like an hawk. Guilt clawing at his insides cause he should have made an effort, he should have come more often and not just to check on the braces. He shouldn't have stayed away so much just cause the prospect of facing the others feels like sandpaper across his skin.

He takes in Rhodey’s relaxed pose, his brown eyes free of the uneasiness Tony got so used to seeing after the fall and hated with every fibre of his being. His shoulders are not clenched in an effort to handle the pain, physical and not, he knows Rhodey felt for months.

Tony hopes the hand squeezing Rhodey’s shoulder, and his half but sincere smile can convey all the words he will never be able to tell him. All the love he will never be able to express.

“I was so sure I was going to have to come and drag you here,” Rhodey says, his tone only half joking, and Tony thinks of the half dozen messages of empty excuses he composed on his phone and deleted before he could send them. “I'm really happy you came, man.”

“Yeah, well…” He rubs behind his neck. “It's Christmas.”

“That, it is,” Rhodey says, before narrowing his eyes. “So would you mind telling me what happened to your face? What's with the black eye and the lip job, Tony. What the hell.”

“What, this?” Tony gestures towards the bruises. Shit. He should have put on concealer or something. “I was just sparring with Happy. I got a little distracted and he got carried away. That man has a surprisingly mean hook.”

Rhodey scoffs. ”Yeah, nice try. Too bad Happy is in California with Pepper right now. Has been for two weeks, in fact. Wanna try again?”

Tony winches. He wonders how long it would take to call his suit to him and run, and if that would be considered rude. Probably. Nevermind that Rhodey would just hop on the War Machine and follow him, and he would never hear the end of it.

“Uhm. Funny story,” Tony says, putting some distance between them, hand scratching his nose. “I ran into a door.”

He can see Carol chatting with Wanda, Sam and Vision from the corner of his eye. His heart speeds up a little. He knows that not all of them are going to be here, some of them are celebrating with their families and other people. Some of them moved on.

(He hasn't.)

He thinks he can spot Natasha and Peter behind the tree, but he's not sure. Rogers is nowhere in sight. Nor is his friend.

When he turns to face Rhodey again, he meets the most unimpressed stare. “And what? You didn't apologize so it hit you again?”

Tony giggles. God, he missed this. Missed him. He feels his shoulders sag a little in relief. This is familiar. He can do this.

“It was a very aggressive door. You wouldn't believe it. I'm thinking I'm gonna sue,” he says.

Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, you show it who's the boss.”

“Exactly!”

“Tony,” Rhodey says, tone serious again. “I wanna know what's going on with you, okay? I wanna help. I'm here for you, you know. Whatever it is you're doing, you don't have to do it alone.”

It's hard to meet his eyes. God, he's such an asshole. He doesn't deserve Rhodey.

“I'm not doing anything, I promise,” he says, and it'd be convincing to anyone else but Rhodey knows him better. “Okay, okay. But it’s not like I started a fight club! I'm not doing anything dangerous. Better?”

“I'm more worried about you doing something stupid.”

Tony sneers. “Come on. When was the last time I did something stupid?”

“Oh, I don't know. What time is it?”

“Abuse!” Tony cries. “I will not stand by and be insulted. I'll have you know I made the list of the fifty most influential people on the planet for what? The eighth year in a row?” He polishes his nails on his shirt. “That's eight more times than you did, by the way. How is that for stupid?”

When he looks up, Rhodey is still staring unimpressively.

“You do know I'm the leader of this team right?”

Tony fakes a gasp, his hand moving in a clutching-pearls gesture. “What? When did that happen? I can't believe this!” He shakes his head, drops the pretense. “I was kinda there for it, you know? Wholeheartedly supported the idea, in fact, though I'm starting to regret it. You don't need to remind me every three seconds, I get it! You're the leader of the Avengers, sir, yes, sir. It's too bad your girlfriend outranks you, really...”

Rhodey sighs. “Yeah, you can drop the attitude, Mr Stank, cause I never will. I'm gonna find out what's going on, sooner or later.” He points his index at Tony. “You know I will. And when I do, I will kick your sorry as--”

“Mr Stark! Mr Stark!” Peter calls from across the room, making them both turn. “Merry Christmas, Mr Stark!”

“Nice to see you again, Tony,” says Carol, beautiful in a dark blue oversized cardigan and jeans, as she and Peter make their way towards them and Tony is so grateful for the distraction he can't stop himself from sighing in relief.

“Hey there, kid,” he says, ruffling Peter's hair. He's wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a happy expression on his face, like a child in a candy store.

“Carol. Always a pleasure.” He smiles, kisses her cheek.

“So,” he rubs his hands together. “What have you been up to?”

“Not much,” Carol says, inching towards Rhodey and resting her hand on his shoulder. Tony can see Rhodey’s whole demeanor lighting up, like a sunflower basking in the sun. It puts the first real smile on Tony’s face. “Things have been blessedly quiet.”

“Don't jinx it,” says Rhodey, eyes soft.

“How about you, kid? Helped any old lady cross the street lately?” Tony asks Peter.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Peter replies. “I don't just help old ladies,” he mumbles grudgingly, almost too low to hear.

“You're adorable,” says Tony. “Is that Green... Elf. Whatever. Is he been giving you any trouble?”

“You've been listening to my reports?” Peter asks in a happily surprised tone, eyes huge.

“Well, duh. When have I ever stopped?” He raises an eyebrow. “So? Do I need to be concerned?”

“Uh. No. No, Mr Stark,” says Peter fast. “I have everything under control! And it's Goblin. Green Goblin.”

“Pfff,” Tony waves his hand. “Goblin, Elf. Same difference. He still looks stupid. You listen to me, kid. Anything goes south, you call me, okay? I don't want you out there alone. Again.”

“Oh, please, Tony,” interrupts Rhodey. “Peter is much more responsible than you'll ever be. And he knows who to call when he's in trouble. Which is me. Am I right?” He gives Peter a meaningful look.

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir,” Peter blushes.

“See? Adorable,” Tony says. “Now leave him alone, I got him first. Go play mama hen with some other kid. This one is mine.”

Carol laughs at the two of them while Rhodey sputters and Peter gets more scarlet.

For a second Tony almost thinks that everything is going to be okay.

“It's good to see you, Tony,” says Rogers then, appearing behind Peter, and it's like someone poured frozen water over Tony’s head. “It's been a while.”

He's carrying two enormous plates, one in each hand. His hair is longer than the short, practical style Tony was used to see him sport, combed back, curling under his nape. There's an easy smile, almost shy, half hidden behind his beard. He's wearing a sweater almost as ugly as Peter's, with maroon reindeers with red noses.

Tony feels like his limbs have suddenly turned into lead, and they're too heavy for him to move. It takes a couple of seconds to put a smile back on his own face, and he's pretty sure it looks forced despite his best effort. “Cap,” he says, and it sounds strained even to his ears. He shoves one hand inside the pocket of his pants. “Well, you know how it is. Companies to run, millions to make, and all that.”

Everyone is quiet around them, almost like they're waiting for a bomb to go off.

(It already exploded. They're all wounded beyond saving.)

“Right,” says Rogers, and his face falls a little. “Yeah, you're busy, I know. It's just…” He juggles with the plates for a second before finding a balance. He eyes Tony’s bruises and Tony sees him hesitate, the words he means to say at the tip of his tongue. “Well, I'm glad you're here today,” he says, in the end. “I better put these down before I make a mess.” He smiles again, though it looks a little tighter, before heading towards the table.

There's a small awkward silence that no one is fast enough to fill.

That went well, Tony thinks, when he remembers to start breathing again.

He's still in a haze when he realises that Barnes is looming a few feet away from them, arms crossed over his chest. When he meets Tony's eyes, he nods. Tony blinks a couple of times before nodding back.

When he looks around he sees everyone exchange nervous glances. A couple of them sigh audibly.

“Well, I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving,” proclaims Rhodey. “Let's get this party started.”

~~~~~~~

He doesn't think anyone notices when he slips out. Rhodey and Carol are sitting on the same sofa, almost no space between them and there's a smile on Rhodey’s face Tony hasn't seen in a very long time. A smile that he never thought he would see again. It hurts deep inside Tony's chest, almost like it's getting a little hard to breathe, and if he stumbles so hard he needs the wall to steady himself, he's already in the hallway and it's nobody's business.

When he makes it to the roof, it's to find it already covered in white, his shoes leaving prints behind. It's been snowing for hours now.

It's cold and not for the first time he regrets not having taken a coat with him. He's sure he must have one or ten in his apartment here at the compound, but he hasn't set foot in there in a while, and he doesn't really want to.

He reaches the railing and stops, rests both hands on the granite, and it's like whatever force was holding him upright is failing him. He closes his eyes and breathes in the quiet, lets the air, sharp and brisk, fill his lungs.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but he still feels emotionally drained. There's an undercurrent of distrust between them all that it seems they're all politely agreeing to ignore for the sake of making things work. He doesn't know if he should be grateful for that or not, but he sure is grateful for Clint’s absence. And for Peter and Carol’s presence.

He wouldn't have made it without them acting as a buffer. He felt his heart constrict in his chest each time Rogers attempted to start a conversation, his jaw hurts from biting his teeth down too hard.

Someday in the future, perhaps, when he'll have made peace with himself and they'll have made peace with each other, someday, he'll be ‘Steve’ again, and calling him ‘Cap’ will roll off Tony’s tongue without faltering first. Not today though. Today he's an empty vessel filled with brashness and good manners.

Today his wound is still festering.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, the grass that surrounds the building is slowly but steadily being covered by an inch of snow and it's sort of hypnotic to watch. The sky is whiter than ever, despite it being late afternoon and his breath is coming out in small puffs of smoke when he feels like he got himself under control.

He used to love snow, back when he was a kid. He was never allowed to go out and play with it, never really had anyone to play with either, that was a privilege that belonged to other kids, kids that were free. But he could watch. He'd see children throwing snowballs and building snowmen and he would long for that, his brain supplying faster trajectories and aerodynamic shapes.

Those fantasies disappeared the older he got, but the longing never really did. The longing of belonging.

(He never truly belonged anywhere and anyone who ever belonged to him left him behind.)

Tony cups his palms to his mouth and blows on them, uselessly trying to warm them up a little, his fingers numb. He should go back inside. He doesn't want to.

“You're gonna catch a cold,” says a voice from somewhere to his right and he's not proud of the high pitched sound that comes out of his lips.

Instinct has him strucking his hands out in defense as he turns around looking for threats. He made the mistake of assuming he was safe.

“Jesus Christ,” he exhales when he spots Barnes. He's sitting on the floor leaning to the railing, head tilted back, elbows resting on his knees, eyes closed. There's snow on his hair, some strands are wet. The top of his black henley appears soaked.

“Nah, just me,” says Barnes cheekily.

How long has he been there?

He finds himself walking towards him and he stops when he's only a few feet away. A few seconds ago he was almost all the way across the terrace. He doesn't remember moving.

“I do have a heart condition, you know,” Tony says, and he drums his fingers over his chest, hearing the glass ticking. Something flashes behind his eyes and suddenly he's back in Siberia again, Barnes digging his metal digits into the arc reactor of the suit, the uni beam ripping his arm off in one clean shot. He shakes his head to clear it, stumbling back, he hits the concrete railing behind him, and he looks up, wary that Barnes might have noticed, but Barnes hasn't moved at all.

Barnes snorts and it takes him a second to remember that he said something to prompt that reaction.

Tony narrows his eyes, angry at his own stupidity. Angry that his heart is beating too fast. Embarrassed that he allowed himself to be vulnerable when he should have been the least. That past and present collide every time he forgets to breathe and he doesn't know how to stop one from pouring into the other.

(He doesn't know how to live.)

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he says. “Or we gotta stop meeting period, really. I'm good with either.”

Barnes says nothing, but Tony could swear his lips are twitching a little. He was not joking, not really. It hurts to see him.

He spent almost the entire week thinking about their last encounter, musing over all the things he should have done differently, all the words he should have said instead. He doesn't want to acknowledge any of it.

He's stuck in a limbo. He wants to move on but he can't get past it. It's not fair.

(It's not fair to either of them.)

“Are you following me?” Tony asks, cause it can't really be another coincidence. Whatever deity who loves to play games with his life wouldn't be this cruel.

Barnes looks up at that, one eyebrow raised. Someone should have gotten him a razor for Christmas, his face seems to always be sporting some kind of permanent stubble. There's snowflakes on his lashes as well, his eyes are really blue. “I was here first, actually. Are you following me?”

It's Tony's turn to snort.

He's the last person he wants to be alone with. Well, perhaps Rogers takes that gold medal, but Barnes comes a close second.

(Untrue. It's himself he doesn't want to be alone with, but there's nothing he can do about that.)

He came to the roof to regroup, to get himself together. He should have gone to his workshop, in hindsight that was clearly a much smarter idea. Less risk of running into people he'd rather avoid there. But he did actually need some air, and the workshop is filled with half abandoned projects he's been putting off for too long. He doesn't need a reminder of all the things he's yet to do. Of all he should come back to.

The wind is whipping Barnes’ hair around his face, and Tony registers for the first time that Barnes is not wearing a coat either.

“What's with you and your aversion for jackets?” he asks, remembering he was wearing just a hoodie back at the cemetery as well. “You know, those things you use when it's cold? Ever heard of them?” He shivers, rubbing his hands together to no avail. The temperature doesn't seem to be affecting Barnes at all, despite the fact that he must have sat there under the snow for far longer than Tony figures.

“You mean those heavy things that keep you warm? Pretty sure we had those last century too,” Barnes replies, tone dry. Asshole thinks he's funny, wonderful.

“Guess it's one of the perks of being a super soldier,” Tony mutters.

Barnes shrugs.

Tony turns to face the garden again, leaning forwards, elbows resting on the railing. He spots Peter throwing a snowball to Sam before taking cover behind a tree, Wanda using her powers to hit Vision with much more snow than is usually polite. Vision doesn't seem too upset as it goes right through him. “That's cheating!” Wanda screams, laughter in her voice.

“I don't mind the cold,” Barnes says, voice so soft, Tony almost misses it. “Reminds me of cryo. Cryo meant peace for me.” He lets out a long exhale. “There were no missions in cryo.”

Tony doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

He wonders if Barnes has any other reason for disclosing such truths other than to unsettle him. If he's even aware that he's doing it. That he's baring himself to a stranger. A stranger who tried to kill him.

When he angles his face to see him, he finds that Barnes hasn't moved, head still tilted back, eyes still closed. Hair and shirt wetter.

“Why didn't you stay in cryo then?” he asks, not sure why. “In Wakanda, I mean.”

“That… that wasn't really my decision.”

“Steve,” Tony says, cause it's not really a question. He already knows the answer.

“I guess the world needed me.” Barnes shrugs again. “Well, they needed my... talents.”

Tony is quiet for a while. He thinks back at the battle with Thanos, at the world disintegrating under their feet. At the certainty that they wouldn't have made it. That he'd disappointed them all cause he hadn't tried hard enough, he hadn't planned ahead enough, despite knowing what was coming. Despite having felt it in his bones.

“What about now?” he says eventually. Thinking that if it was him, if he had a way to turn it all off to find even some semblance of serenity, he would go on his knees and beg for it.

Barnes brow furrows. “Why don't I go back to cryo?”

“Yeah.”

It's a while before Barnes replies. He turns his head away when he does, gaze distant. “I thought about it. I think about it a lot actually. It's not like the world really needs me anymore. No one really needs me.”

Tony makes a sound at that. “Pretty sure your buddy would disagree.”

Barnes shakes his head, wet strands falling in front of his eyes. “Stevie doesn't understand. He's still waiting for his best friend and that man is dead. He’s been dead for a very long time.”

“Why don't you then?”

Barnes’ lips twist in a parody of a smile. “Guess that would make a lot of people happy, wouldn't it?”

Tony stays quiet. He thinks about it. Would it?

Not having to see him would certainly be easier for him, but it wouldn't change much of anything at all. His parents would still be dead. Steve would still have lied.

Barnes looks at his hands. “I've… I've killed a lot of people. I don't even know how many. I've been Hydra’s puppet for a very long time. Nothing will ever take that back. There's no undoing the things I've done.”

When he meets Tony’s eyes, there's no hiding the depth of his sorrow.

(It's like looking in a mirror.)

“I can't go to sleep. I don't think I… I can't go to sleep.”

I don't think I deserve it , Tony thinks. That's what he meant to say, he doesn't know how but he's sure of it.

Tony opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't know what yet, but he feels like he has to say something.

“There you are, Buck! I've been looking all over for you,” comes from behind them, and Tony jerks upright as if burned. When he turns around he finds Rogers standing at the door.

The moment Rogers spots him, Tony can see his friendly expression turn into one of confusion, then concern, eyes darting from Tony to Barnes before settling on Tony.

“Hey, Tony,” he says, tentative. “I thought you already left.”

He turns to Barnes, gaze assessing. “Everything alright?” he asks, and it's stupid but the two words hurt Tony more than they have any right to, more than he expects them to, despite the fact that he knew they were coming.

Rogers doesn't trust them to be alone together. It's fair. But it's a reminder that something between the two of them is fundamentally broken.

Some broken things you can fix, assembling the pieces if you can find them all, and gluing them back together. Some will still work, as good as new, but they will always carry the cracks like scars. In some, the water will find a way to filter through those cracks, and they'll be whole, but not whole .

Which ones will they be?

(The glue is still drying for them. Soon they'll know.)

“As a matter of fact, I was just leaving,” Tony says, and a handful of seconds later the suit flies to him and he's encased in its shell. Safe again.

“Well, this was nice,” he says, already hovering a few feet off the floor. Barnes and Rogers are both looking at him. Barnes’ hands are closed into fists, Rogers mouth is hanging open. “Let's never do it again.”

He waves once, before lifting off. He doesn't wait for a reply. If it comes, he doesn't hear it. He's already gone.

#winteriron #buckytony #tonybucky #starkbucks #bucky x tony #mcu #winteriron fic #fic**#my fic**#I totally forgot to post it here when I posted it on ao3 cause I suck #oh well #at least I'm almost done with chapter 3 <3

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bewareofchris · 7 years ago

Text

a friend in need

PG-13 | No Pairing Precisely | MCU | language? implied violence?

summary: rewriting Iron Man 3 to fix the most obvious plot hole, i.e. where the fuck the avengers were.

The phone rang six times before he found it under a pile of newspapers he kept meaning to read (but didn’t). “We’ve got trouble,” sounded very much like Natasha half-distracted by something else. The background of her voice was a cluster of voices playing one over the other.

“SHEILD trouble?” Steve asked.

“Turn on the news,” she said. (Far be it for her to simply explain herself; talking in code and complicating matters seemed to be the only language she employed with any consistency.)

Still, Steve turned his TV and was immediately greeted with an instant replay of Tony Goddamn Stark threatening a terrorist. (When he’d asked, yesterday and the day before and the day before that, Natasha and Fury both had assured him they ‘had people on it’.) “You still got people on this?” he asked.

“I’m sure they do,” Natasha said. “I’m not calling as a member of SHIELD.”

“What are you calling as?”

Natasha must have shrugged on the other end of the phone, a sort of casual gesture that would have conveyed a lot if only he’d been there to see it. Through the phone, all he got was a lingering silence that implied nothing. She worked her way around to saying, “a concerned friend. I thought you’d want to know.”

There was nothing Steve liked less about Tony fucking Stark than his impulsive-childishness. There he was, on (inter)national TV giving his home address to a known terrorist. It didn’t matter (much) how he felt about Tony (as an individual) because Tony was Howard’s son, was a fellow soldier (or at least teammate), was something almost like a friend—and personal differences aside you just didn’t let emotionally impulsive friends murder themselves by promising to kill terrorists. He didn’t sigh (but he very, very much wanted to), but said, “isn’t Banner on the West Coast?”

“You want to send Banner,” Natasha said.

“Well,” he said like he was considering it, “if we’re just being friendly.”

Bruce caught the news when it was fresh, long before it became a non-stop repeat of the same horrific shit show. He was sitting on a drab little couch in a hotel room, hand-over-his-mouth, trying to work through how it felt to watch Tony brashly declaring war on the Mandarin. He hadn’t been in the city (thank God) when the explosion occurred but he was close enough that the gathering fear was starting to grate on his nerves.

He didn’t blame them, not at all, because things like explosions and terrorists and death were the thing of nightmares to the average man. But it filled up all the talking space, it suffocated in elevators and coiled itself up into long lines at grocery stores, so every man and every woman was eying the newspapers with an edge of worry, thinking something between oh those poor people and thank God it wasn’t me.

It made him itchy. It made his perfectly human skin start to feel thin and stretched.

Maybe he’d been working around to thinking he might as well take a drive to Malibu before his phone rang. There he was, sitting on his drab couch in his mediocre hotel room, staring at Steve Roger’s name on his caller ID, thinking if he just didn’t pick it up he could still walk away.

(And what a terribly pervasive idea. What a nasty little voice in his head, whispering things about how nobody knew he’d ever seen the news.) But Bruce answered it on the third (almost fourth) ring and said, “I’m guessing you saw the news too.”

“I’m watching it right now,” Steve said.

“Are you coming?”

Steve sighed like he thought he hadn’t. “I don’t know how glad he’d be to see me, but I’m making the travel arrangements. Bruce, you know that I wouldn’t ask you if it was—”

“I know,” Bruce said. Steve would never ask him to get involved, not unless it was life or death. Steve wouldn’t call him up like they were friends if it wasn’t important. (Bruce was just working out, privately, in his head, if that had to do with Steve’s desire to spare him the guilt of unleashing the Hulk, or fear of what the big guy would do. Not that the motivation mattered when the practical end was the same.) “Someone should be there,” he agreed. “I’m closest.”

“Sir,” Maria Hill said from the doorway. She liked to linger in doorways, maintaining the pretense of professional courtesy. Maybe she’d come to tell him about Zach in IT’s birthday party (it started in five minutes) or how they were over budget (again, since saving the world was a messy, expensive business) or how something else in the R&D lab had exploded and condolences letters would have to be sent again. Instead she stopped short at the sound of the news report repeating things like:

‘Iron Man’ and

‘Vigilantism’

And,

‘Invited the Mandarin to his home address…’

“Are we doing something about this?” Maria asked.

“Officially?” Fury asked. He didn’t turn his chair to look at her but turn his head so he could catch how she rolled her eyes. “What Tony Stark says or does in his free time is his own business. Last I checked, he was only a consultant.”

Maria put her hand on her hip, “unofficially?”

“Unofficially,” Fury repeated, “I feel kind of sorry for the bastard.”

“Tony?”

“The Mandarin.”

Steve was half through throwing some things into a bag, (there just was no telling what one might need to fly across country to comfort or protect a sort of teammate from a terrorist of unknown means. He had a toothbrush and a clean shirt, while he tried to work out if he could get his shield past airport security these days), when the knock on the door interrupted him. He zipped the bag and threw it over his shoulder, grabbed the shield with one hand and went to answer the door.

It was not surprising to find Clint there, looking casual in a leather jacket as he folded his sunglasses up in one fist. He was-and-wasn’t exactly smiling when he said, “I heard you need a ride to Malibu.”

“You heard that?” Steve repeated.

“We’ve got the same friends, Cap. Come on. Nat’s going to meet us.” He waited politely for Steve to close and lock his door and then glanced at his outfit (exactly the same way that Fury always did, like he wanted to say something but decided against it).

“What?” Steve asked.

“Nothing,” Clint assured him. “We should go,” and once they started walking, “you called Bruce?”

“Yes. He’s already on his way.”

Retrospectively, threatening a terrorist with his home address probably hadn’t been his brightest move. While Tony had spent far, far, far too much time designing new suits to protect (Pepper) he hadn’t exactly put any sort of thought into beefing up home security. His house, while a marvel of modern engineering, was remarkably vulnerable. He’d spent the four hours between 2 and 6 AM going over exactly how easy it was to destroy his house with JARVIS, mapping out every conceivable method of attack and discovering that barring a mime showing up with maracas, there was simply no serious attack that his house could withstand.

At 6:10, just before his body felt like it was going to fold in on itself from exhaustion, JARVIS interrupted his desperate attempt not to panic, to inform him that Bruce was on his doorstep asking to be let in.

It was 6:15 when he finally dragged himself up the stairs and to the door to open it, and there they were, Tony staring at Bruce rubbing one hand over his other fist, the pair of them looking (very intelligent) uncertain about how they’d come to be here. “Did I call you?” Tony asked. (Because for one very unsettling moment, he couldn’t be sure what he had or had not done, exactly.)

“Uh, no,” Bruce assured him. “Steve called me.”

“Steve Rogers?”

“Yeah, yeah that Steve.” Bruce looked around, caught sight of the giant bunny, and pointed a finger at it with an implied question that Tony simply couldn’t bring himself to answer again. Rather than point out that it was Christmas (and maybe he’d thought it was romantic) he just shook his head. Bruce let it go at that, “a terrorist, Tony?”

“Happy,” he said.

Bruce sighed. He shuffled farther into the house, looking painfully uncomfortable to be there. “You could have called.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. (To cover the fact that he had not thought he could have; or that he should have. It was really bad enough that he had thrown Pepper into the center of this disaster, there was no need to drag anyone else into it.) “Steve Rogers called you? Told you to hurry over?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “He’s coming, he didn’t call you?”

Tony snorted at that.

Bruce was just staring at him again.

“What?”

“It’s just,” Bruce started, “you threatened a terrorist. A terrorist that has been taking the credit for suicide bombers. A terrorist that the United States’ government with all its agencies and resources hasn’t been able to locate or stop. You threatened him.”

Tony shrugged.

“Why are you still here,” Bruce asked. He sounded as exasperated as Pepper, as outdone as a preschool teacher during a full moon, exactly the sort of tone of voice a wife would use on her husband when she found him giving the kids a bath in grape jelly. “Why aren’t you wearing a suit?”

Tony had reasons. Just, standing right in front of Bruce, trying to put together the idea that Steve fucking Rogers, the Great American Dream himself was on his way, made all of Tony’s reasons (panic, despair, fear, anxiety, exhaustion, hurt, anger) seem illogical. He said, “we were planning to leave today.”

“Maybe leave now?” Bruce asked. “Is Pepper here?”

Tony did not want to answer that question.

“Tony,” Bruce said. It was a point of pain, sweetly poignant.

“I’ll wake her up.”

Natasha was dressed for battle, Clint had his suit in the jet. Steve was wearing a jacket, a button down and khaki’s carrying his shield in one hand, feeling underdressed in comparison. He went to knock on the door while the other two waited in the jet, while he stood on the doorstep he tried to think of exactly what he meant to say to Tony that would convey that he was concerned, in a way that didn’t also convey that Tony was stupid to have put himself and his loved ones in danger by behaving so immaturely.

It was Pepper that answered the door, looking hassled but lovely as always.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“It’ll only be for a few days,” Tony said from behind her, as a follow up to an argument that must have been going on for a while. He was carrying her bag while she shook her head.

“It wouldn’t have to have been for a few days if you hadn’t—Tony,” she interrupted herself, “give me my bag. Is this my ride? I assume this is my ride. Do you know where I’m going?”

“Not exactly,” Tony admitted, “I just want you to be safe.” He was still defending himself all the way to the jet.

Steve was left standing, somewhat awkwardly, in front of the open door. He peered inside to see Bruce standing in front of the windows, squinting out at the glistening water. Manners dictated that he didn’t just assume he was going to be invited in, but he felt a bit like an idiot standing outside on the porch.

Tony came back after a pause. “I love the new uniform, Cap,” he said. He shoved his door open and motioned Steve in after him. “It’s less difficult to look at.” He mumbled more nonsense as he crossed the room to pick up a decanter of liquor, pulled the stopper out, sniffed it, took a brief second to consider a glass and decided to drink it straight from the container instead. He sat at the piano, folded forward with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging down. “Why are you here?” he asked. One of his hands was pushed through his hair, scratching at his scalp. The question seemed to be mostly directed at the floor.

Steve cycled through a half-dozen options of obligation and duty and protecting your team and settled on, “we’re friends, Tony. We’re here to help.”

#a minor miracle #Tony Stark #Bruce Banner #Steve Rogers #Fix it Fic #Natasha Romanov #clint barton

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